


we got our own sense of time

by buckybarnes



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Police, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-11 22:27:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10475835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckybarnes/pseuds/buckybarnes
Summary: Bob smacks Dubi’s hand away, shifts uncomfortably. “I… have taken an interest in the suspect.”Realization breaks across Dubi’s face and he grins like the Cheshire Cat. “You have acrush.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> title from "hannah hunt" by vampire weekend.
> 
> this is 100% ridiculous and unrealistic but hey, that's how i roll.
> 
> this one goes out to all my cbj twitter pals. you're all amazing and inspiring and i love you <3

When Tortorella asks for volunteers on the grand theft auto case, Bob is out of his seat before he can even really think about it.

Tortorella looks surprised, and Bob can understand why; he’s a bit surprised with himself, honestly. Bob’s a good officer – he’ll do anything assigned to him, no questions asked – but he’s usually not so forward, so… _excited_.

Bob tells himself that he isn’t sure what it was about the case that piqued his interest. He’s been on vehicular theft before; it’s not a particularly exciting assignment. Most of the time they turn up empty handed, the thief long gone. If Bob’s being honest with himself, it wasn’t the case at all that had interested him; it had been the suspect, a man who Tortorella had described as being in his mid-to-late twenties, dark hair, and possibly dangerous. The only picture they have it a grainy clip from a gas station security camera. Bob definitely does not zoom in on it as far as it’ll go, later.

Bob knows he has a type: scruffy, dark-haired assholes. He can point to Dubi as an example, although they’d only hooked up a few times before coming to a mutual agreement that they were better as friends and co-workers. Besides, Dubi’s got Cam now. It’s better.

So yes, Bob’s fully aware when he takes the case that he’s really only doing it because he has the hots for the suspect. Bob wonders, a bit miserably, how he lives with himself.

* * *

 

Dubi plops the case file down on Bob’s desk after the meeting. Dubi’s staring at him, a bit too intensely for Bob’s liking. Dubi’s always been intense.

“What?” Bob asks, doing his best to sound annoyed. It doesn’t work.

“Why’d you take the case?” Dubi asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Because of my commitment to keeping the city free of crime,” Bob says, monotone.

“Cut the shit, Bobrovsky,” Dubi snaps, jabbing his finger into Bob’s chest. “I know you. I know you’re above this. This is rookie shit.”

Bob smacks Dubi’s hand away, shifts uncomfortably. “I… have taken an interest in the suspect.”

Realization breaks across Dubi’s face and he grins like the Cheshire Cat. “You have a _crush_.”

Bob tries, valiantly, to defend himself. “That… is highly unprofessional,” he stammers. He hopes he’s not blushing.

Dubi keeps grinning. “Yeah, it kind of is, Bob. Man, if I’d have had to guess which of us would try to bone a suspect first, my money probably would’ve been on Booner.”

Bob is definitely blushing now. “I am not trying to _bone_ anyone,” he says, gritting his teeth. “My interest is purely professional.”

Cam passes by Bob’s desk and Dubi grabs him by the waist. “Hey, Cammie, Bob here’s trying to fuck a felon.” Cam rolls his eyes, shoving him off halfheartedly.

“I have _real work_ to do, Dubi,” he mutters, and continues on his way. Dubi blinks.

“Whatever. I’ll tell him later. So, back to you having a hard-on for a car thief, Bob–“

Bob gets up and leaves.

* * *

 

Bob comes in early the next morning, and he’s already two cups of coffee deep when he starts looking over the case file. As with most auto theft cases, there isn’t a ton of information to go on; the report states that nine cars have gone missing in the Columbus area in the past two months, and that his suspect – _the_ suspect – has been caught on camera near at least four of the locations.

He pulls out the photo taken from the security camera, brushes his fingers over it. The man in the photo is wearing a baggy hoodie and jeans, inconspicuous, but Bob can still tell that the guy works out. It’s difficult to make out any facial features besides the faint stubble on the man’s cheeks. Bob absently thinks about how he’s always liked being with guys with beards, likes feeling the scratch against his cheeks when he kisses them –

“Morning, Bob!” Cam beams, tossing a box of donuts down on Bob’s desk. Bob jumps, shaking himself out of his daydream.

“Morning, Cam,” Bob says, trying to sound normal. “You’re early.”

Cam shrugs. “This is the only time I really have to myself away from Dubi. I love him, but he’s a lot, you know?” Bob smiles. He does know.

Cam cranes his neck to look at the file Bob’s studying, frowns when he sees the photo. “Bob,” Cam starts.

Bob interrupts. “I – don’t know what Dubi has told you,” he says, strained. “But you must understand – my interest in this case–“

“–is purely professional,” Cam finishes for him. He smiles a bit. “Bob, save it. I think it’s cute that you’re crushing on a convict. I think it’ll make you more dedicated. I just–“ Cam looks like he’s struggling for the right words. “I don’t want you to become too obsessed with this case, you know? You gotta remember to have a life. There are plenty of guys out there that have perfectly legal careers,” he adds, winking.

Bob forces a smile, pats Cam on the back, and goes back to the file.

* * *

 

It’s three weeks after he gets the case that Bob gets his first real lead. Wenny tips him off, tells him that he and Bill spotted a car matching the description of one of Bob’s missing vehicles while they were out on patrol. It was in a nice part of town, but it was a nice car, a silver BMW that probably cost more than Bob made in a year.

Dubi tries to insist on going with him, but Bob pushes him off, tells him this is his case and that it probably won’t end up being anything anyway. He still looks annoyed when Bob leaves.

Sure enough, when Bob gets there the car is exactly where Wenny said it had been, parked crookedly outside of a mechanic’s shop. Bob steps out of his car – he hadn’t taken the patrol car to remain somewhat inconspicuous, but he still had his uniform on underneath his jacket – and rests his hand on the gun on his hip. Just to be safe.

Bob takes a lap around the car, inspecting it. The plate numbers don’t match the ones he’d been given, but the thief had probably had them changed if he’d had any sense.

“Can I help you?” shouts a voice, subtlety New York-accented. Bob’s head jerks up, his hand going to his hip instinctively.

There’s a man standing in the doorway of the shop. He’s dressed plainly, a t-shirt and jeans, but it’s his face that Bob’s more focused on. Dark hair, scruffy beard. Bob is definitely staring. The man furrows his eyebrows.

“Can I help–“ The man stops abruptly, his gaze landing on Bob’s hand. He takes one last look at Bob’s face as if he’s trying to memorize it, and then he bolts, sprinting down the alley beside the shop.

The guy is fast; Bob is faster. Dubi always said that Bob was built like a jackrabbit, all legs and no fat. The guy trips, stumbles onto the pavement of the alley, and Bob tackles him. The guy grunts, wiggles around for a few moments, and then gives up. Bob decides not to think about how he’s currently got the man who has been the object of his fantasies for the past month pinned down in an alley.

“Dude, get _off–_ “ the voice says, gruff. Bob hauls him up, shoves him against the side of the building. His eyes are blue, Bob notices. Really blue.

Bob isn’t sure the exact moment that he feels the tension shift and he realizes what’s going to happen here. He sees it in the man’s eyes, too; the blue gets darker, his pupils get bigger.

“Do you–“ Bob gets out before the guy is nodding so fast Bob thinks his neck might break. They drive back to Bob’s apartment, a stranger – a _criminal_ – in the passenger seat of Bob’s car. Bob hates himself a lot, but also can’t seem to care.

* * *

 

“What’s your name?” Bob pants, his fingernails digging into the guy’s shoulders. The man hesitates a moment before apparently deciding that there isn’t any harm in it.

“Nick,” he mutters. Bob opens his mouth to say something else and Nick presses his lips to Bob’s to stop him. Bob likes the way Nick’s beard scratches against his cheeks.

So, between “oh my God” and “please” and “more”, it’s “Nick” that Bob moans.

* * *

 

Nick kisses Bob awake in the morning. Bob hadn’t even expected him to stay the night. He rolls over, can’t help but notice how much bluer Nick’s eyes look in the sunlight coming in through the window.

“Are you going to arrest me?” Nick asks softly. Bob feels like crying.

“No,” he says, finally. Nick goes down on him and Bob thinks about how horribly fucked his life is.

He texts Dubi that he’s sick. Dubi doesn’t reply.

* * *

 

“Would you want to grab dinner, sometime?” Nick asks while he’s getting dressed. He sounds hopeful. Bob can’t say no to those eyes.

The next day at work, Bob asks Tortorella if he can be removed from the auto theft case. The trail’s gone ice cold, Bob says.

* * *

 

Nick takes Bob out to an Italian place. It’s kind of a dump, but Nick keeps raving about how “authentic” it is and his eyes light up when he talks about the lasagna. Bob thinks it’s kind of adorable.

“Why do you steal cars?” Bob asks, quietly, when their small talk has come to an end. Nick’s eyes drift down to his plate.

“My dad stole cars,” Nick says, sounding pained. “My brother steals cars. I just kind of did it too, I guess.” Bob can tell that he’s hit a nerve. He reaches across the table and takes Nick’s hand in his, stroking his thumb over the knuckles.

Bob is gentle with him that night, kisses him everywhere. The next day, he buys an extra toothbrush and puts it in his bathroom.

* * *

 

“I want to set you up with my friend,” Dubi tells him at work. “You’ll like him. He’s nice.”

“I’m seeing someone,” Bob says. Dubi studies him, really looks him over.

“Good for you, Bob.”

* * *

 

“I want to go out west, to the coast,” Nick says one night, stroking Bob’s back absently. “Maybe up north to Vancouver. You should come with me,” he adds, trying to sound casual.

“I can’t leave my job,” Bob says, though he doesn’t really mean it.

“You’re a pretty bad cop, Bobs,” Nick says thoughtfully. “You’ve got a criminal in your bed and you can’t manage to lock him up.”

* * *

 

Bob calls Tortorella the next morning and tells him he has to quit. He’s moving out west, he says.

Cam texts him and says that he’ll give him a week to get as far as he can before he reports where Bob’s gone and with who. He’s always been a good friend, Bob thinks.

* * *

 

Bob helps Nick pack up the car – _a_ car, Bob isn’t sure where it came from. They leave before dawn; the sun is blinding ahead of them and Bob uses it as an excuse to stare at Nick. He knows he should probably feel bad about driving around in stolen property with a criminal. He doesn’t. He’s never been happier.

* * *

 

Nick parks the car in an empty field in Indiana. He needs a break from driving, he says. They sit on the hood of the car and look up at the stars, passing a bottle of beer back and forth. There’s a chill in the air, and Bob presses himself closer to Nick. Bob wants to kiss him, so he does.

“I’m sorry this is your life now,” Nick murmurs into Bob’s mouth.

“I’m not,” Bob says simply, and kisses him again.

They fuck on the grass like high school kids in a bad movie. It’s cold and uncomfortable and perfect and Bob laughs the whole way through.

* * *

 

They stop for dinner at some greasy diner in western Illinois. Nick drinks black coffee from a cup that doesn’t look like it’s been washed this decade. Bob steals fries from his plate.

“You really should eat more, you know,” Nick says, sighing. “You could pass for a scarecrow.”

“Got to stay fit,” Bob points out. “Running from the law now.”

Nick smiles sadly at that. Bob doesn’t know how to make him understand.

“Nick, I want to be here. Always with you.”

Bob leans across the table and kisses him; their waitress coughs.

They switch cars in the parking lot. Bob wants to chide him, tell him he really shouldn’t be breaking the law any more than he has to, but Bob’s a criminal now, too, so he doesn’t really see the point.

Nick finishes hotwiring the car, a beat-up brown Buick that no one will miss, anyway. Bob climbs into the passenger side and yawns. Nick lights a cigarette and turns, stroking his fingers across Bob’s cheek, so, so gentle.

“Get some sleep, Bobs.”

* * *

 

Bob wakes up somewhere in Iowa, the flat land stretching out for miles. The clock on the dashboard glows 1:43 AM and Nick’s got the radio on low, some classic rock station that Bob vaguely recognizes. Bob studies Nick’s face; it’s barely recognizable in the darkness, but Bob thinks he’s smiling. Nick must catch him staring because he glances over, his eyebrows raised.

“Bobs? You okay? Couldn’t sleep?” Nick sounds so concerned. Bob thinks that he loves him.

Bob doesn’t answer. He takes Nick’s hand in his own, twining their fingers together over the console, and closes his eyes again.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter [@stantIers](http://twitter.com/stantiers); i scream about hockey a lot.


End file.
